Stiles hasn't been sleeping well - he thinks he's probably gotten about ten hours in half as many days - and what he'd been hoping was some weird Darrow thing is proving to be something a lot more persistent, and a lot more personal. It's all been scary and he isn't hiding any of from his friends anymore, but he's not letting them worry. He's not sleeping well, but he's sure it'll pass. He wakes up screaming, but it's just a nightmare. He loses time in class, finds himself fighting to stay here and not in his head, but really, he's fine.
'Fine' can only last for so long, though, and after spending more time than he should locked up in some of the darker parts of the library, he isn't any closer to an answer to his problem than he is to figuring out any of the mysteries on his wall. He needs help, and Hermione's dealt with her fair share of mysteries and freaky weirdness, right?
So he texts her, because he doesn't trust his big freaking mouth: Hey! Got some weird questions and a puff who misses her mom. You got an hour to kill at the park with me?
It doesn't even sound like him, but it still feels better than any of the alarmist things he wants to send.
Stiles likes the park. It's one of the few places in the city that he sort of forgets he's in a city, where he can pretend he's just at some nameless park in California. He practices lacrosse badly here, loses chess games to Seth's old friend Moishe, and just... is.
It's comfortable. Or, at least, it makes him comfortable, sometimes, and he needs that right now, however false the security. He tries to focus on that, sitting on the lawn and watching some kid splash around in the lake while playing intermittently with Nermal and his phone. If he waves a little too happily or smiles a bit too brightly when Hermione approaches, it's probably because he's a little out of practice at both. His nerves are shot.
"Hey!" He sets his pet down and stands up, letting out an anxious breath. "You, uh. You weren't busy, were you?"
'Fine' can only last for so long, though, and after spending more time than he should locked up in some of the darker parts of the library, he isn't any closer to an answer to his problem than he is to figuring out any of the mysteries on his wall. He needs help, and Hermione's dealt with her fair share of mysteries and freaky weirdness, right?
So he texts her, because he doesn't trust his big freaking mouth: Hey! Got some weird questions and a puff who misses her mom. You got an hour to kill at the park with me?
It doesn't even sound like him, but it still feels better than any of the alarmist things he wants to send.
Stiles likes the park. It's one of the few places in the city that he sort of forgets he's in a city, where he can pretend he's just at some nameless park in California. He practices lacrosse badly here, loses chess games to Seth's old friend Moishe, and just... is.
It's comfortable. Or, at least, it makes him comfortable, sometimes, and he needs that right now, however false the security. He tries to focus on that, sitting on the lawn and watching some kid splash around in the lake while playing intermittently with Nermal and his phone. If he waves a little too happily or smiles a bit too brightly when Hermione approaches, it's probably because he's a little out of practice at both. His nerves are shot.
"Hey!" He sets his pet down and stands up, letting out an anxious breath. "You, uh. You weren't busy, were you?"
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